


Water Amongst the Rock

by Luzula



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Historical, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-25
Updated: 2007-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/pseuds/Luzula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley was still sleeping. Aziraphale wondered if he would ever get up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water Amongst the Rock

**Author's Note:**

> My first piece of fan fiction ever. Title stolen from T S Eliot.

_February 1871_

The night was clear, but cold, and the scurrying Londoners did not pause as they pulled their coats around them against the buffeting wind and hurried to wherever they were headed. If they had looked up, they would have seen the wind driving tattered clouds across the face of the full moon, and perhaps a glimpse of something large, flying.

Aziraphale's wings beat steadily but wearily as he finally descended through the smoke-filled London air. He landed awkwardly, stumbling in the narrow alley which hardly had room for his wings. A flock of pigeons, disturbed by his sudden passing, squawked indignantly on the eaves of the house above. Folding his wings in, he rounded the corner and unlocked the door to his bookshop. The creaking door opened on a cold dark room, and he hesitated on the doorstep and then leant his forehead against the doorjamb. Somehow, it felt less like coming home than he had hoped. He had flown through the night, crossing the Channel from Calais, because he had been feeling homesick and had not taken the time to wait for a ship.

He straightened and locked the door again, walking away from the shop on foot, too tired to fly again. His mission on the continent had been hard work. It was almost as if the lack of Crowley's influence on the world did not matter. Certainly humans could think of enough atrocities on their own without demonic persuasion, and consequently Aziraphale thought that probably he himself could not make much difference either. He closed his eyes against the memory of starving Parisians. He liked humans, he did, but they died. They died, or they killed, or they gorged themselves while others starved. He shook his head to rid himself of the images, and looked up.

He was in a richer neighborhood now, where the type of people who had servants lived. Stopping finally outside a large oak door, he knocked and waited awhile for a reply. He shook his head when there was no answer, and opened the door despite the heavy lock. The interior was warm, dark and dusty, with an opulent red carpet on the hall that led to the stairs. Aziraphale padded up the first flight of stairs to the landing, and then to the second story. He turned the handle on one of the doors, taking care to make no sound.

Still sleeping. Aziraphale wondered if he would ever get up again.

Crowley's skin was the pale color of something that had not seen the sun for decades. He almost glowed in the dim room, and his hair was shockingly dark against the white sheets. Aziraphale's mouth twitched upwards, and then he smiled fondly when he saw that Crowley had been drooling on his pillow. It felt like the first time in months that he had smiled, and perhaps it was. The bed was broad (of course it was, Crowley would never settle for less when he could have more), and Aziraphale sat down gingerly on the edge, and stroked the fine linen between his fingers.

His weariness spread suddenly through his body like something alien taking him over, and his hands felt clumsy and heavy as he leant down to untie his shoes. _Only for a few minutes_, he thought as he lay down on the edge of the bed, his head sinking into a down-stuffed pillow. _I shouldn't fall asleep._ He closed his eyes, and that was the last conscious thought he had in several days.

***

A particularly insistent ray of sunshine found its way between the heavy drapes, and fell on the closed eyes of the demon sprawled over the bed. He screwed his eyes even more shut, and fumbled for the sheets, which had slipped away. Like the warmth-seeking serpent that he was, he burrowed close to the angel lying in exhausted, dreamless sleep on the bed next to him, and fell asleep once more.

***

Aziraphale surfaced slowly from sleep. He was warm and completely rested. Drawing a deep breath, he sighed in contentment. His nose tickled, and he opened his eyes slightly to see why. His face was buried in black silky hair, warm from his breath. Aziraphale stiffened as warning bells went off in his head. He must have made some movement, because the warm bundle of sheets in his arms made a sleepy snuffling noise and snuggled closer. Fully awake now, Aziraphale stared helplessly at Crowley's dark eyelashes against his pale face, and the way his lips were slightly parted.

This is just something that my human body wants, he thought in an attempt to be logical. It is like food, or a hot cup of tea. There is nothing strange about it, certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Nevertheless, another part of him insisted that he had to get away from this, now, before it was too late. Very carefully, he extricated himself from Crowley and the twisted sheets. The demon made a muffled noise of protest but did not wake, for which Aziraphale was deeply grateful. He stood for a while beside the bed, looking down, his clothes wrinkled and disarrayed from days of sleeping.

He had long since stopped feeling guilty about indulging in food, wine and books. Earth had won him over, slowly and surely, with chèvre cheese topped with honey and walnuts, with dark red Bordeaux wine, with leather-bound books with thick creamy paper. Nowadays, he only occasionally felt guilty even about indulging in sleep when his body craved it. But indulging in Crowley, that was something else entirely and he fled the room, quietly closing the door behind him.


End file.
